The electric gleam moved swiftly over the white surface of the post with its ornate trimmings of dull gold. Again, as once or twice before, he wondered whether there was any hidden significance in the fact that The Gray Phantom had stood in this identical spot at the moment the shot was fired. Was it possible that the skulking assailant had feared that The Phantom was about to make an important discovery, and was that why he had fired the shot? Culligore pondered the question while scanning every square inch of the pillar.
Suddenly the electric gleam stopped at a point near the floor, and Culligore could scarcely repress an exclamation of elation. His ruse had succeeded, for on the white surface of the post was a faint discoloration which signified that Starr’s hand had recently touched that particular point. There were no other marks, and this one was only a few inches from the floor. Culligore’s fingers ran quickly over the surrounding space, and occasionally he pressed his thumb firmly against the wood, but without discovering anything. His hand slid downward to where the rich Persian carpet was neatly tucked around the base of the post, and suddenly his exploring fingers touched a slight knoblike projection. He pressed firmly, and he felt an exultant tingle as there came a soft, whirring response. A panel in the post, ingeniously hidden in the gold-lined grooves, was sliding back, forming an aperture.
The electric gleam showed a look of keen elation on Culligore’s face. His discovery had taken only a minute or two of valuable time, for he had moved fast since he noticed that Starr was gone. Yet, but for a happy inspiration and the resultant reddish stain on the post, he might have searched for days without finding the opening.
Now he squeezed his figure through the narrow aperture, at the same time pocketing his electric flash and drawing his automatic. His feet encountered the upper rungs of a ladder that pointed straight down. He descended rapidly, making no sound. At the bottom was a narrow passage extending in the direction of the street, and at its farther end he saw a faint glow. He approached quickly, warned by a sixth sense that he had no time to waste.
He came to a door. It stood open a crack, and through the narrow opening he saw a strange scene. An elderly man, with a thin and haggard face and sunken eyes that stared about him in an agonized way, was lying on a cot. Starr, bending over the recumbent man, was winding pieces of rope around his feet and hands and drawing them into tight knots.
“There, Mr. Fairspeckle,” he tauntingly declared when he had fastened a gag around the other man’s mouth, “I don’t think you will work loose a second time. Even if you should, you will find that the telephone is out of order.”
He laughed, turned away from the cot, and uttered a gasp as he looked into the muzzle of Culligore’s pistol. Every trace of color faded from his face, but he gathered himself quickly.
“You are a most astounding person, Culligore,” he remarked coolly. “I wonder how you found your way down here. Not that it matters,” he added with a shrug, “but I am naturally curious. I won’t press you for the information, however. Any way I can be of service?”
“Yes, Mr. Shei,” said Culligore, emphasizing each word and looking straight into the other’s eyes, “you can hold out your hands and not make any fuss while I put the handcuffs on you.”
Starr laughed derisively. “Sorry not to be able to oblige you, but I have a distinct aversion to handcuffs. Won’t you sit down and be comfortable? An underground room like this has many advantages. In the chests you see against the walls I occasionally store things that the police and private detectives would give a great deal to be able to lay their hands on. It is an excellent hiding place, and it serves several other purposes besides.”